


the ache

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Clifford can never say the right thing, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It is important that he confronts Penelope. They need to have this conversation, although just because a conversation is held, it does not mean the rights things are said.Major TW: Eating disorder central to plot, mentions of conversion therapy/homophobia





	the ache

**Author's Note:**

> Just because there is a conversation, it does not mean the right things are said. Clifford Blossom is hit-or-miss with his attempts to set his wife in the right direction. His intentions, of course, are questionable. She is not having it, though she clearly needs help. Shout out to penelopeblosscm and fredheads on Tumblr (jugheadjones on AO3) for adding to the headcanons/things mentioned here. Our babies had it rough.
> 
> Also, don't handle things the way Clifford does. Have compassion if you know someone struggling with an eating disorder. Have compassion for yourself if you are.
> 
>  
> 
> Links provided by jugheadjones (I don't know how to hyperlink in the Notes):
> 
> https://www.theprojectheal.org/  
> https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/recovery-information  
> https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/where-do-i-start-0  
> https://www.eatingdisorderhope.com/information/resources-for-anorexia-bulimia-and-binge-eating-disorder  
> https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/toolkit/parent-toolkit/physical-signs

He had not said a word throughout dinner. Each scrape of fork against the plate was like Lucifer himself whispering in her ears. She could not bear the taste of the tension crammed in her throat. Perhaps, that is why she could not take a single bite of the roast in front of her. She excuses herself, the utensils clatter to the dish. Clifford Blossom is mid-bite as the legs of the chair drag across the floor. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks; Just hard enough to mimic a sense of chewing, but not enough to draw blood. Her heels click with each step. The door knob is cold against a clammy hand. Penelope Blossom can only let out her breath once the door to Thornhill manor shuts behind her. An inky black of the sky speckled white is a much better view than the stuffy dining room. The young mother-to-be stands with her hands supporting her back. The cashmere fabric of dress feels nice against her hand. What is underneath the fabric, however, causes other thoughts to surface. Her bump is no bigger than what she thinks would be the size of a volleyball. She walks along the nearest path, which would lead her to the outdoor pool. It must warm enough for her to dip her feet in, at least. But stops as her eyes meet the gate. She needs the key, which is back in the manor. Damn it. It was not as though any fiends would ever dare to sneak onto the Blossom property anyway – why must they need a key for an already-gated ground? She decides her greenhouse would be far too muggy for her comfort right now, and settles for a grassy area that is obscured enough in the shadows. She is prepared to damn any bugs that may dare crawl on her straight to hell. She kicks off her shoes. It was not as though any guests were expected at this hour – it was not as though she was in a space where she cared to be seen. Her eyes flutter shut as her spine becomes parallel to the ground.

She wishes it would be instinct to place hands on her belly, but opts to run her fingers through blades of grass instead. Meredith had absolutely no right to utter a word about her habits. She had no right to – what? Express concern for her employer? Then again, Meredith spent more time around the lady of the house than Clifford. The scent of earth permeates the air, her senses. A catalyst in her craving to feel ok. She opens her eyes, which note the absence of the moon, though thin clouds blow over the manor like the opening scene of _The Addams Family_. It looks as though she will not be _moon-bathing_ tonight. Penelope lets out a laugh. She recalls how Alice Smith hummed that god-awful tune inches behind her in the halls of Riverdale High. She recalls Hiram escalating the teasing to torment with full-on shouting, and she recalls shoving him backwards on the floor of the commons in front of everyone. One hand lifts from the grass, and reaches her line of sight. And then drops it over her chest. Only seconds pass before her fingers press against her own sternum, then to the grooves of rib, leading up to clavicle. A grip of reality. And that is when she feels it – them. One of them, at least.

“I love you both so much, but I need my control. I wish your father could understand that.”

The movements still. Of course, she is treated to no reply. Her hand moves from the bump of her clavicle to the bump that should matter more. The babies resume shifting, and she almost believes that if there were enough light, she would see a foot stretching her skin from the inside. It is a visual that both fascinates her and disgusts her. Suddenly, she jolts up with the sound of hissing in the air. She may be miserable, but she would never wish to die by snake bite. Cold water hits her. Penelope lets out a yelp, before grabbing her shoes and bringing herself to her feet. She moves as fast as possible through the minefield of sprinklers. The fabric of her dress sticks to the back of her legs with cold dampness. As she nears the main entry of Thornhill, the silhouette of her husband materializes. The remote to the sprinkler system in hand. Her eyes narrow with resentment, and pushes away the temptation to hide in the cemetery. She can make out the look on the face that says he is not in the mood. Neither is she, but she figures it is best to get it over with.

“Get inside,” he growls.

She inhales sharply as she takes a step on the cool stone of the entry. She hears the water die down behind her. There is nothing she could say to make it any better for herself. He pivots around, right behind his wife. The door closes, not loud enough to be considered a slam, but with the intent to convey the end of her self-imposed isolation from him. She drops her shoes to the ground. As she nears the staircase, he speaks.

“No. The dining room.”

Her blood is like ice water, and she turns to face him. Her mouth opens, then shuts. Begging would not save her. Clifford drops the remote to the irrigation system on the entryway table with a clatter.

“On your way then,” he states before taking his own steps.

She follows, flicking the water droplet that clung to her bare arms away, not caring if it spots the floors. She then remembers Meredith will have to clean that up, but she also remembers Meredith ratted her out. _Oops_. Her chest lurches as legs of a chair drag across floor. He stands behind the seat, and awaits her. Before she can even refuse giving him the satisfaction of eye contact, her attention is drawn to the device and one of her journals on the table. She stops.

“What the hell is that?” She asks, knowing full well what it is.

“Have a seat, Penelope,” he answers.

“Why do you have my journal?”

“Have a seat, Penelope.”

She begrudgingly does so. Clifford begins to gently push the seat in.

“I can do it myself. Thank you,” Penelope growls.

Without another word, he takes his time walking to the other side of the table, which is clear of everything but the device and journal.

“Where is Meredith?” She asks.

“I dismissed her for the evening. This conversation is between you and me, but she will inevitably become involved, regardless if you cooperate” he answers.

Her eyebrow twitches as she forces herself to look at him. The magnetism of his blue eyes is absent, but his whatever in his gaze has just a strong of pull. Realization sinks in as she realizes _he_ is scared too. The muscles of his face tighten. She breaks eye contact, and looks to the table once more. Just knowing the invasive purpose of that plastic tube sends chills down her spine. Her eyes meet his again.

“You do not seem to appreciate what I provide for you,” he states.

“I do appre—”

“It is insulting, and quite frankly, disappointing, that you cannot even take care of yourself when I give you everything you’ve ever wanted, could ever need,” he cuts her off.

“Clifford—”

“I simply cannot understand–“

“This is not about you,” Penelope dares herself to say.

He is taken aback, but offers a single nod.

“You are right in that,” Clifford states.

Penelope’s eyebrows furrow. He swallows, and presses his fingers tips together.

“This is,” he eyes her belly, “This is about you. This is about you putting my heirs… our children… in grave peril. You are wrong to maintain these… habits, given the state you’re in.”

Penelope inhales sharply.

“I am careful, Clifford.”

“There is no way to be careful whilst starving yourself. I came across your journal three weeks ago, and was confused. It only contained numbers – and I wondered what they meant, until Meredith brought up her concerns about your habits. I immediately recalled how you cannot seem to hold down your vitamins in the morning, though I assumed it was just morning sickness. You cannot take those on an empty stomach,” he pauses.

She stares at him with a sense of betrayal on her face.

“I realized those numbers in your journal are calories you are counting and your weight, which you seem to take twice a day. And Penelope… these numbers…” his voice is a blend of fear and disgust.

“You had no right to read my journal. And I am _fine_. The twins are _fine_ – I still feel them kick.”

“Will you be able to say the same a week from today? Will you even be able to say the same thing tomorrow? There is no way to guarantee _their_ safety unless _you_ stop,” Clifford replies.

She looks away. Her chest feels hot though her skin is cold. She runs a hand through damp hair, shaking her hand free when a few strands come loose and tangle in her fingers.

“Do not force me to make this choice for you.”

Penelope looks to the tube, to the journal, to her stomach. The fabric of her dress is wrinkled over her belly. She feels and sees them move. Hot tears prick her eyes.

“I am sorry,” she murmurs.

Neither one of them know whom she directs her apology to – Clifford? The babies? It is an ambiguous expression of guilt. She watches a tear fall to her lap.

“You have two choices, here. Either, we have the feeding tube administered by personnel from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy—“

He watches her eyes widen. She bites down the inside of her cheeks – hard enough to draw blood this time. If her body had the energy, her heart would be racing. She is fighting herself in more ways than one – this particular battle is to contain the residual emotions she holds toward the Sisters. Penelope cannot… she could not handle that, again. Clifford gauges her, watching her body tense. Isolde and Ernest warned him of her deviance in her youth when he and Penelope returned from their honeymoon. He never anticipated a bride with so many troubling inclinations.

“Or… you can eat three meals a day, prepared by Meredith. She or myself will be present the entire time, and we will track your intake ourselves. And with either option, you will be weighed once a week.”

“How much do you expect me to gain?”

“Enough so that the doctor does not suspect anything— though, he probably already has,” he eyes her up and down, “I do not wish this issue to extend to any more than it must. If it makes you feel any better, you will not be seeing how much you gain so long as you step on the scale backwards.”

Penelope’s mind flashes to a place she was just under a decade ago – the same _tactic_ used by the Sisters. Though, that was not why she was committed, that was how procedure was conducted there – _is_ conducted there. She recalls quietly consoling a sickly thin Fred Andrews because he peeked at the scale after one measuring. They sat at a table, scribbling onto yellowed coloring pages of _The Little Mermaid_. A green crayon snapped under the pressure of his bony hand. She recalls being ready to take the art materials from him in case one of the Sisters walked by and asked why he was coloring in a girl’s book during _Free Time_. She recalls whispering, _“You’ll be ok”_ until he could regulate his own breathing while warm raindrops beat against dirty windows. She could recall choking on a rubber mouth guard as she was strapped to a table but could not recall how many volts of electricity shot through her brain just a few days later. It pains Penelope to think that somehow, she was less lonely then compared to now. Either option is a trap. Both are humiliating, but one is far less barbaric. Penelope’s ears burn. She winces while her belly stretches, one of the babies shifts and settles down again.

“Would I have a say in what these meals would be?” Penelope asks breathily.

Clifford sighs.

“For breakfast, yes.”

“Breakfast and lunch,” Penelope replies.

“Breakfast, _brunch_ for when you are expected to meet with my business associates and neighbors and that does not count in your three meals if so, and your lunches on the weekend unless we have guests,” Clifford states.

“Fine.”

“But every meal must have a five-hundred caloric intake, minimum.”

Her eyes widen with panic.

“Three-fifty,” Penelope argues.

“Four-seventy-five,” Clifford counters.

“Three-seventy-five.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Four hundred,” her voice cracks.

“Four-twenty-five,” his tone tailors to suggest that is his final offer.

Penelope shakes her head. This is ridiculous.

“Fine.”

“Look at me,” he says.

She obeys.

“I am doing you a kindness, dear. You may not see that now, but you will be grateful when our children are born. To see them alive and well will be the greatest gift from God.”

She knows if it had been the other way, she would have lost far more control.

“And you owe it to me to birth my heirs without complication.”

Clifford rises from him seat, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. He picks up the journal filled with numbers, and walks out of the room, leaving a crushing silence. She pushes away the damp hair that sticks to her face. He returns just moments later with a serving tray. Penelope’s eyelids flutter as she tastes defeat without even having taken a bite. There is bowl of what she guesses is tomato bisque by the amazing smell, utensils wrapped in a cloth napkin, a platter with six crackers, and a new leather-bound journal. He places the food in front of her, then returns to his seat with the book. Penelope stares at the thin film that sits over the soup. She hates that her stomach growls. Clifford begins scribbling in the new journal, though it is positioned so she cannot see what he writes even if she wanted to know.

“I’ve always loved the scent of new pages,” he glances to her, “eat before it goes cold.”

Penelope stares for a moment longer, before reaching for the cloth napkin that encloses utensils. She unwraps it, letting them clatter onto the table. Their eye contact does not waver. She places the napkin on her lap, and he returns to writing the in journal. Before she can bring herself to pick up the spoon, she pauses. Penelope’s fingers press against her sternum, then to the grooves of rib on her chest, leading up to clavicle. It was a grip of reality that was not lost, but taken away. She picks up her silver spoon, and gives in.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Links provided by jugheadjones:
> 
> https://www.theprojectheal.org/  
> https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/recovery-information  
> https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/where-do-i-start-0  
> https://www.eatingdisorderhope.com/information/resources-for-anorexia-bulimia-and-binge-eating-disorder  
> https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/toolkit/parent-toolkit/physical-signs


End file.
